When Skies Are Grey
by MsCashew
Summary: Whenever a flash of a something reminds John of Sherlock, he'll have the same dream. But on the anniversary of Sherlock's fall, the dream he has is exceptionally different and feeling terribly real. Could it be? Johnlock! One-shot!


Hello, my lovelies! So, here's another Sherlock fanfic. :D

For those waiting for an update on "The Doctor Visits", it will be updated within the first week of April. :D

I was listening to The Civil Wars the other day, and the idea for this fic formed in my mind when I was listening to their version of "You Are My Sunshine" (it is AMAZING, go search on youtube 'You are my sunshine The Civil Wars' and it'll pop right up ;D). I highly recommend listening to it before reading this fic. ;) See if you can pick out the lyrics I used throughout the story. :D

Also, for those that enjoyed my Sherlock fanfic "A Simple Question", there is a sequel in the works that has to do with their first date! HOORAH! :D So, keep checking back if you'd like to read that. ;)

But anyhoo, on with the fic! If you enjoy, a review would be most appreciated. They make me smile. :D

Johnlock, so if you don't particularly care for that pairing, then I s'pose you shouldn't read it, hmm? Huh . . . Though, if you want to try something new, then by all means, go for it!

Also, I don't own BBC Sherlock. If I did, I'd be hanging about with the cast, I'd s'pose. :)

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><p><em>The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping.<br>__I dreamt I held you in my arms.  
><em>_When I awoke dear, I was mistaken.  
><em>_So I hung my head and cried. . ._

He thought he was getting better.

He thought that he had made progress, was actually moving on and away from constant thoughts of, of _him_. . . Of his long since dead best friend, Sherlock Holmes. But then once he thought he was finally feeling something other than loss, feeling as if he was finally letting go . . .Something out in the world triggered a memory about his friend. A certain headline of a crime in the paper, a more than curly mop of hair, a random blue scarf on passers by and he'd have the dream.

It was always the same. Sherlock was with him again, tooling about in the kitchen with one of his experiments. In this dream, John actually wasn't idiotic enough to deny his feelings that honestly started growing ever since he lent him his phone that first day, but actually told the detective of what he felt for him. Where Sherlock accepted them and actually reciprocated them, even if they were so much more confusing for him than for John, the dark haired man never having a relationship before. But he wanted to try, in John's dream. God help him, he wanted to try, as John wasn't ordinary to him, as his blogger meant more to him than anyone he'd known . . . So how the dream went, anyway, he soon waking up after his arms enveloped the lanky man, nearly giving him a chaste, yet honest loving kiss. He always woke right before he could feel the younger man's lips against his.

But it was different this time. So very different.

It didn't happen in the kitchen this time. Of all the places he could have dreamed, it happened in Sherlock's bedroom. He supposed it made sense, he having fallen asleep in said room.

Now, this wasn't a habit. Far from it, as his last visit to Sherlock's room had been about a year now. He had been looking for a book high and low after he got home from a case (one in which every officer had been oddly more than friendly to him, courteous, in fact) and had changed into simple pyjama trousers and a t-shirt. A book he couldn't locate anywhere else in the entire flat. So, with all possibilities of the book's location looked through, he thought of the last and now was dumbly standing in front of the door to his friend's room, just staring at the dark wood as if expecting someone would just pop out before he could go in.

Taking a deep breath in through his nose, gently, slowly, letting it out of his mouth; he turned the knob gently, hearing that click, pushing the door open with the utmost care.

It hadn't changed. Though, how could it really when no one entered? Except for dear old Mrs. Hudson, bless her. She'd go into Sherlock's old room once a week to dust while John was at work, even if she wasn't their . . . well, _his_, housekeeper, she hated dust and was glad to clean it up a tad for John. He could tell that she knew he didn't want to go in there. He was grateful for that.

He spotted the lost book right away on the nightstand, walking over cautiously; he turned the lamp on with a thundering click in the more than silent room, studying the book as it lay there.

He didn't need the book.

It was the only book he could think of that he remembered being in Sherlock's room.

"It's his anniversary tomorrow." he whispers to himself, the realization hitting him a tad too hard making him go off kilter, he turning slightly, sinking to the edge of the bed not wanting to fall flat on his face, biting his lip a little too hard in order to control a cry of pain for his loss.

That's why everyone was being so nice to him today. That's why everyone was offering if they could do anything, anything at all, if maybe he'd like some company tonight or tomorrow.

"How much of an idiot am I?" he asked to the empty room, thinking that maybe someone would answer back, "Going to look for a book that I don't need or even want, just so I could get a peek at my friend's room. Pathetic." he grumbles that last word, placing his face into his palms, shaking his head at himself.

Taking his face away from his hands, he looks around again, taking in the room around him. He hardly had ever been in here. Counting the times with The Woman having drugged Sherlock and an unfortunate search that had to be done when Sherlock wasn't acting like himself; he didn't especially know the room. It was a nice room. Nice bed, nice furniture (if a tad spare). It felt like . . . Sherlock.

Letting a breath out, he stares longingly at the pillows at the foot of the bed, it being made up as if nothing was amiss (due to Mrs. Hudson, of course).

"The possibilities if I had admitted my feelings to him," John started, a hand running along the duvet in a languid fashion, "Would he have had the same feelings? Would we have been a couple? Could we hold a tad of normalcy that couples do and just cuddle on lazy days? . . . Pffft," he lets out a sarcastic breath, "Lazy days with Sherlock, now there's a laugh." He smiled the tiniest smile, his finger drawing lazy circles on the fabric.

"I bet we would have cuddled, though. Everyone likes a good cuddle," he smiles a bit more wider, soon his cheeks flushing a rosy tint at his next thought,

"Would we have made love in this bed?" his cheeks turn three more shades of red at the images popping into his head, an actual chuckle of glee emitting deep from his throat.

Thinking these thoughts didn't make him especially want to leave. . . Then yet another thought occurred to him as he interestingly studied his pyjamas.

"Oh God, I was planning to sleep in here, wasn't I?" he ruffles his hair a tad roughly, those hands traveling to his eyes as he rubbed his palms harshly there, frustration clearly evident toward his subconscious. He didn't normally change into his pyjama trousers straight away, normally these days he just stripped down to his under shirt and pants when he went to bed. Of course he had been planning this all along without realizing.

"You know what, fine! You're obviously telling me something, my stupid arse faced subconscious, otherwise I wouldn't have even gone looking for the book!" he stands, giving the bed a glare, suddenly feeling nervous at the prospect of sleeping in Sherlock's bed. It was ridiculous, though. The only way he should feel nervous is if Sherlock were still . . . still here, and alive, and to share the experience of John sleeping in his bed. . .

Scratching the back of his head, he decided to rationalize why he was even doing this.

"Okay, so. . . Maybe just being close to where he slept . . . where he _rarely_ slept, will put my buzzing mind at ease. Maybe it will make me feel a tad closer to him, especially on his date of, of. . . Death. . . Yes, that sounds perfectly fitting. Good job, John." he shakes his head, not believing he was paying himself a compliment on something so stupid.

Pulling back the duvet, he timidly climbed into the large bed, pulling the covers up to his chin, snuggling down nicely, he takes up one of the consulting detective's pillows and inhaled the slightest bit. He relaxed some as he found that Sherlock's scent still lingered ever so lightly. A surprising fact, as he would have imagined Mrs. Hudson cleaning the bedding every now and again.

Hand running down into his pyjama pocket; he retracted his mobile to see the time.

"Half ten. Tad early, but. . . That's fine." he says terribly softly, a hint of sadness on the edge of his voice, placing the mobile on the nightstand gingerly, turning the lamp off with a loud 'click', he turned around, snuggling further down, looking out the window at the bright half moon, it overpowering the yellow warmth of the street lamp.

"I miss you," he says quietly, the fabric tightening around his form, a slight tremble coming to his voice, "I miss you," he repeats, knowing he should be saying something else.

"The case I had today," he starts, that weak tremble becoming a bit stronger. It was something he did. Talk to Sherlock. It was an exceptionally rare occurrence and only happened when he felt especially alone. He thought the couple hours before the anniversary certainly warranted his talking to his dead friend, "It was pretty simple. I know, why call me in? Greg calls me in from time to time, you know. Some of that deducting did rub off on me. Maybe not the genius part, but that's okay." he says with a small smile, continuing on with his story until he was dozing away, a ghost of a tear gliding down silently on his cheek as his next words brought him into a light sleep.

"I miss you, Sherlock. So much. . . "

He didn't seem to sleep very long.

As he lay there, having shifted to his back in his sleep, his eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the light, his sight revealing the light of the half moon he'd fallen asleep to hidden slightly by light clouds, the dingy street lamp mixing in with the milky light, making for an odd, yet relaxing atmosphere that warmed him. It was cool, yet comforting.

Why had he woken up? Was he still sleeping?

He soon hears a faint creaking slowly making it's presence known by getting a tad louder, making it's way closer and closer. That must have been the cause, he thought.

John looks toward the door, the creaking sounding like soft footsteps making their way to his room . . . Sherlock's room, he remembered, noting that that's where he fell asleep at.

It couldn't be Mrs. Hudson, it was far too late. Was he imagining it? No, he could hear the 'thump, thump, thump' of the slow, deliberate steps on the hardwood floor. Even in his state, he could now officially tell the footfalls destination was this room, but what for, was the question.

They stop, the steps, as a silhouette of undoubtedly a man appears in the open doorway. Tall, lanky, a mass of curls atop their head. Even in shadow, John could see how very pale their skin was. What he heard next made his breath hitch in surprise.

"John?" He knew that voice. He knew that deep drawl of a tone all too well.

"Sherlock?" his voice flowed out raspy, shaking slightly at the sight before him.

"What are you doing in my bed?" the question came out in a matter of fact tone, this making John laugh softly.

"I missed you." He says simply after his laughter died down, his eyes closing, not being able to take in the sight of him standing so plainly there, "I wanted to feel closer to you, so, I made my way into your bed." he finished, eyes still closed to the dream that was before him. He knew this was a dream, it just had to be.

John hears Sherlock's steps make their way toward the bed, stopping right by the edge, feeling the detective studying him from high above. His closed eyes clench hard as he feels the start of a terrible lump in his throat, the sting of a tear threatening to make an appearance in the corner of his eye.

"What's wrong?" he hears his friend say softly, hearing a rare tone of worry in his voice. He takes a strangled breath in, a tear or two threatening to fall as he struggles to say it.

"You're dead." he whispers out in a rasp, those couple tears finally falling, his hands clenching at the duvet, just wanting to wake from this taunting dream.

"But I'm not, John," he feels the edge of the bed sag, feeling Sherlock take up the edge of the bed right beside him. He takes a chance. Opening his eyes, he finds his friend sitting right beside him, one leg tucked under him as he faced John, those striking blue eyes searching his own, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for what I had to do. You were in danger, as well as Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. I had to jump, I had to make it look like I was dead. I had to make you believe that I was gone, or else . . . You would be gone." he finishes softly, those eyes never leaving John's for a moment.

The former soldier studies the man before him for a moment, taking in his features. He was a touch thinner, he noted right off the bat, his cheekbones showing more prominent than ever, his clothes hanging about him in an awkward fashion. If possible, he looked even more pale, deathly pale, in fact. His hair was still unruly, still dark, his eyes still an elaborate blue that held a unearthly gleam of knowledge to them. . . It was Sherlock, the consulting detective, just a tad different. Why was he different in this dream?

The doctor took the detective's hand in his, his friend's eyes looking the slightest bit confused at the gesture, looking even more so as John started rubbing his thumb on the top of his hand, they widening in shock as he took it further, placing a timid kiss on the palm.

"John. . ." he said softly, not pulling away in disgust but leaning slightly in with a flash of fascination in his eyes.

It was John's dream, he wanted to tell Sherlock, he felt he **had** to as he never would have that chance in the waking world to do so.

He sits up slowly, not once letting go of the cool hand in his. He pulls on it a tad bit, signaling for Sherlock to move a little closer, which he understands, as he's Sherlock Holmes. Of all people, he'd be the one to understand a simple gesture.

He moves in, John deciding quickly to change the dream up as he watched the raven haired man moving in closer, not wanting to wait to wake up before he could do what he'd been wanting to do for so very long.

Letting go of Sherlock's hand, he wraps his arms around the detective gently, protectively, the man in his arms looking slightly confused at his actions, maybe even a touch scared at what John was doing. The doctor ran a hand up his back, over his shoulder, and to his cheek, a caring touch of his thumb caressing the jutting cheek bone made Sherlock relax, leaning into the touch lightly, his eyes closing very briefly at his gentleness.

John leaned forward, so very close to Sherlock's lips, studying him for but a moment, the man in front of him daring a look toward the light haired man's lips, silently giving permission for what he was about to do.

And with that, John, finally after so many dreams of this moment, placed his lips on Sherlock's lightly, gently, caring. He soon put a good amount of pressure to it, it becoming more and more as he wanted to pour all his feelings, all the things he's left unsaid for so long into that kiss.

He feels Sherlock kiss back, feeling his arms wander around his torso, they pulling one another in closer, chests pressed together as they continued their kiss. John places that hand on Sherlock's cheek in his terribly curly hair (he had been wanting to do so for so much longer than he cared to admit), tilting his head slightly, wanting to deepen the kiss. He swipes his tongue on the detective's lips, hearing a light groan from within Sherlock's throat, feeling the man open his mouth willingly, John not waiting another second to be able to explore this man's lovely bowed mouth, his hand starting to grip the unruly locks tightly at feeling Sherlock's tongue start to play with his, it entering his mouth, a moan wandering from his own lips, being stifled by this incredible man's mouth.

He retracts his tongue, Sherlock lightly whimpering at the loss, whimpering more as John starts to playfully nip at his lips, kissing him chastely after each one, Sherlock's hands roaming about on John's back, arching slightly into John as his nips becoming slightly more aggressive with each one, absolutely loving that he was able to do so.

He gives him one last deep, loving kiss before pulling back to look into Sherlock's eyes, his eyelids dangerously low as he looked back into John's, they both breathing heavy, cheeks terribly flushed, surprised at finding that they both had run their hands under each others shirts.

John placed his forehead against Sherlock's, his eyes boring into the dilated blue ones he adored. If he was going to say it, even in a dream, he had to do it now.

"I love you, Sherlock." he said quietly, but with conviction, his voice trembling at his next words, "I know I've always been the first to object what people say about us being a couple. And I do stick by my claim that I am not gay. But I fell for you, Sherlock. The person you are, the intelligent, infuriating beyond compare, witty, bantering, insufferable man that has become my best mate. I don't care about the bits between your legs," the detective smirked softly at this, "I fell for the person in here." he softly says as he lightly presses a finger tip to Sherlock's temple, soon placing an even lighter kiss where his finger was, bringing the more than lithe man closer to him, into his lap, his arms holding him tighter than he knew he possibly could, burying his face into the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent as deeply as he could, he feeling the man in his arms doing the same, they staying like that for a few long moments before John heard Sherlock speak.

"John," he starts in nothing but a breath, the doctor feeling him shake ever so slightly, "I'm not going to claim to know all there is about, about feelings, or love, or anything like that. If anything, I know next to nothing."

"Can say that again." John says teasingly, he feeling a pinch to his back from the lanky man in his lap, though feeling an equally teasing smile against his neck.

"But please know this: I do have feelings for you, feelings I don't remember having in my life. If I'm not mistaken, I believe them to be . . . Love. Love for you. I love you, John. You put up with too many of my shenanigans-"

"Shenanigans?" John teases again, feeling a rumble of a chuckle against his person, this making him smile wide, going in to kiss Sherlock's neck with the gentlest touch, Sherlock arching the slightest bit.

"_John_. You put up with me and all my shit. I'm an arse, an egotistical maniac that brings home spare body parts and keeps them in the fridge. I'm selfish and rarely consider those around me. I don't pick up the milk, even though I see no point in doing so," John just rolls his eyes at this, "I . . . I want to keep you for myself and not keep seeing you go out with so many woman you don't plan to stay with. And before you say I ruined your chances with most of them, I did see with my own eyes you had no intention of keeping them around for long. . . It pains my heart to see that, which again, I can't remember ever feeling, whether it be from me deleting it or just never having felt it." he pauses for a moment, his arms tightening his hold on John, his hands gripping at the warm skin of his back.

"Can you be mine, John? In a, a more than friend way?" he whispers in his ear, John not remembering how to breath momentarily as Sherlock's plea sounded so feeble, so frightened that John wouldn't even consider this request.

His senses come back in full swing exceptionally soon, kissing Sherlock's neck once again, feeling the man in his lap lean his head to the side, giving him better access to his more than pale neck.

Sherlock wants John to be his, well, John wants Sherlock to belong to him as well.

He bites the ivory skin, a tad bit hard mind you, right on the side of his neck. Sherlock gasps below him, moaning gently as the doctor starts to suck on the soft skin.

"_**John**_. . ." he moans out in such a low rumble of a voice, John starting to kiss so gently where he bit so hard, beaming at the mark that would undoubtedly turn quite purple very soon, leaving a stark contrast on the lovely skin of the detective for all to see.

He leans back, giving the terribly flushed man a loving, playful smile.

"Yes, of course I'll be yours. But you have to be mine as well, then." he says quietly, placing an airy, loving kiss upon the younger man's lips, feeling him kiss back immediately, as well as feeling a rare grin from Sherlock.

And then, after that more than adequate kiss, they just held each other. Holding onto one another, John holding tightly as he didn't want this dream to end, didn't want to let Sherlock go this time. He hoped, even going as far as sending a quick prayer up, that maybe this wasn't a dream. Maybe Sherlock was really here, maybe they really did profess their love for one another, maybe they could start and try a relationship. . . If Sherlock were still alive, that is.

His grasp on him tightens, burying his face into the crook of his neck, that familiar sting in his eye threatening to ruin the moment.

"Don't leave me, Sherlock. Please don't leave."

"I won't John, not ever again." his hands rub the doctor's back so softly, so reassuringly, this, and the more than emotional dream reunion making him sleepy (such an odd thing, becoming sleepy in a dream), making his eyes start to flutter as he wanted so much to just fall asleep in his dream. Fall asleep with _his_ detective.

"Lay with me?" he whispers as his eyes are drooping, his hold relaxing some.

"Of course." he hears the smile in Sherlock's voice, also feeling him disentangling his long limbs from his form, not liking losing that warmth.

He watched as Sherlock stood, toeing off his shoes he still wore, removing the nearly form fitting blazer, carelessly placing it on the floor, the tall man giving him a smile as he climbed in next to the former soldier. John pulled the man halfway on top of him, holding him safely, securely to him. Sherlock carefully placed his head on John's chest, his arm draped over his stomach, fingers lazily tracing circles there, the doctor not being able to help but run a hand through the unruly mop that was Sherlock's hair.

"Never dreamed I would hold you in my arms before. Feels so nice, Sherlock." John says in a terribly groggy voice, eyes drifting closed as he felt Sherlock's arm tighten his hold, feeling a kiss placed gently on his jaw.

"I have for a long while." Sherlock whispers, sounding as if he were dozing as well, the doctor feeling this nonexistent man relax so nicely upon him. It feeling amazingly brilliant.

He really hoped that he was still here in the morning and not just another dream. Otherwise, he feel it may just destroy him. . .

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><p>It was an overcast day that filtered through the window, the patter of rain sounding quietly against the glass, the drab day shining quite dully over John's face is what made him wake.<p>

He felt good, fantastic, really. More so than he had for a long while in fact. Stretching, he reached out for someone that he expected to be there, only to find . . . Nothing.

Sitting up with a start, eyes wild with abandon, that grand feeling fleeing like an overzealous child in a sweets shop.

Sherlock. He had gone. . . No. . . **No**. He _was _gone. He had been gone for three years now. He was never here. It, it was a dream. Nothing more than a heart shattering dream that had felt all too real . . .

He couldn't help it. He felt that familiar feeling in his eyes and barely did anything to stop it.

Hands clenching the duvet with so much force, feeling his knuckles must be white; a sob caught in his throat. He started shaking, nearly violently, another sob sounding loud and clear throughout the room, wracking through his entire self.

He broke down, tears flowing freely, whole body trembling through his cries of despair as he just kept crying and crying.

"In all my dreams, why do you leave me?" He whimpered through his crying, his voice suddenly becoming louder as he went on in his lament, "Why did it have to be a dream? ! It felt so real. It felt too real! Why? !" his sobbing quickly turned uncontrollable, feeling like he wouldn't be able to stop, his face burrowing into the palms of his hands, "Sherlock. . . Come back. Make me happy again. . . I-I'll forgive you for disappearing again, I'll take all the blame, j-just come back. Come back to me . . ." he didn't especially know what he was saying as his weeping continued, he just wanted his friend back in that bed, he wanted to feel his warmth, he wanted to hold him, he wanted to **kiss** him. Just like last night. He wanted last night to have been real.

"John." his breath hitches at the voice. That voice. _His_ voice.

He tentatively looks toward the doorway, his eyes finding a tad of a frazzled detective standing there, his breathing hard as if he had ran, his long fingers clutching the door frame. He looked the same as last night. Though, he now wore his usual pyjama bottoms and his blue dressing gown, John noticing his curls were damp. He also saw quite the noticeable purple mark on his long, pale neck. John would have smiled at this, maybe even have laughed, if he wasn't in the state he was in.

"Sherlock." his sobbing becomes louder, burying his face into his hands once again, not wanting Sherlock to see him like this, even if the man in the doorway was a figment of his own imagination. He had to be, or he was still dreaming. He just didn't know anymore, the feeling of not knowing positively torturing him.

Not knowing how long he was crying, he suspected Sherlock had gone, had disappeared again from either his crying or him just being an absolute figment of his imagination. But, he got another surprise as he felt a warm hand on his shoulder, the arm that was attached to that hand soon wrapping around him with another as he felt the bed sag from another man's weight, feeling the dead man hugging him tight. John immediately pulled the taller man to him, his arms enveloping Sherlock's torso tightly, burrowing his face into the crook of his neck, the tears still coming in a constant torrent.

"John, I just went and showered," he heard Sherlock whisper gently, feeling a soft kiss pressed against his temple, the man's slim hands running under his shirt, rubbing his back soothingly, "Are you alright?" he heard the careful question, feeling Sherlock's arms tighten slightly, "What's wrong, John?"

"You're dead," John blurted out, taking in a ragged breath as his fingers dug into Sherlock's back, the man in his arms slightly wincing, but not pulling away. He just held him a tad tighter, actually, "You're dead, and I-I'm still dreaming, a-a-and, I-I can't take it. It's torture to see you, to feel you, t-to know you're not here!" Even knowing his words to be true, his hold never lost it's grip and just held tighter, not wanting to let go of this dream, even if it would break him.

"John," he feels Sherlock pull away, holding him tighter, thinking that he would disappear. He felt another gentle rub on his back, he somehow knowing that this was to show him that his dream wasn't going to end just yet.

The detective pulls away slightly, looking into John's puffy eyes, giving him a small smile as his hands come to rest on his cheeks.

"I'm here, John. I'm not dead," Why was his dream lying to him in such an uncharacteristically gentle voice? Though, it did calm his wailing into controllable whimpers, "I'm not going anywhere. Remember last night? Remember our talk?" John gives him a weak nod, "I had to disappear for a while. I had to make sure Moriarty's organization was put out of it's misery. I had to make you believe I was dead, I had to keep you safe, John. And Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Do you understand?" Another feeble nod, "Good. Now, are you okay?"

At this question, however, John bit his bottom lip, shaking his head no.

"I'm waiting to wake up, Sherlock. You can't be here. You never are when I wake up." Now at this, Sherlock gave him a bit of an annoyed look, his, 'For Christ's sake, John, don't be such an idiot' look. But his hands went back and rubbed his back nicely, gently, even lovingly, John had to say.

"What can I do to prove to you that I'm not just a flitting dream? That I'm very much real and that, that we proclaimed our feelings toward one another last night?" He said still a tad annoyed, though, there was a sort of desperation held within as though Sherlock couldn't bear that John thought that last night was nothing more than a dream.

So there they held one another, each studying the other, John's mind whirling in how Sherlock could prove this wasn't a dream as the detective started kneading his back carefully . . . Something about that made his thought's race.

"You, you pinched me last night." he says suddenly.

"Yes. . .?" Sherlock looks unsure, his kneading halting momentarily.

"Pinch me again." John says, holding up his arm in the younger man's face. Sherlock gives him a confused look, a blush creeping to his cheeks, the look on his face confusing John somewhat.

"John, if this is a, um, some sort of, of foreplay to, to prove you're awake, well, I do understand you wanting to ravish me to a mere mess of mewls and goop after holding in your feelings for me for so long, but I just don't believe we're ready for that step." the detective flusters a tad as John grumbles, it resembling a bit of a growl, in frustration, a bit of a flush coming to his own cheeks at Sherlock's assumption.

"N-No! I need to see if I'm still sleeping. I-I need to know that you're not just a dream." With a tad of a relieved, albeit, annoyed look; Sherlock took a hand from John's back, slowly reaching out. But instead of pinching his arm, his hand took hold of John's cheek instead, pinching it harder than need be.

"Ow! Sherlock! That hurt."

"What do you expect from a pinch?" he gives him a look of 'it had to be done', "That's for the hickey." he adds quietly after, a quirk of a smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

John rubs his cheek, the pain evident as he gives Sherlock the death glare. But the realization hits him harder than a runaway cab.

"It. . . It hurt." John says shocked, Sherlock giving him quite the curious look, "It hurt. I-I should be awake right now after that. Why am I not awake?" he falters, his mind's disconnected tracks finally grasping together in a bang of understanding as the cars that represented his thoughts finally started to move in a furious race.

"Sherlock?" he trails off with wide eyes, staring at the dark haired man before him, hands starting to feel him up and down, on his back, his front, arms, hands, finally coming to rest on his face, the man with the glowing blue eyes giving him a warm smile.

"I'm home, John." he says quietly, a hand going to rest on John's with care. It barely had a chance to rest there as John crushed his lips against Sherlock's, the detective reciprocating straight away with just as much fervor, if not a tad more, the whole show of affection being a sloppy mess of lips, tongues, and teeth.

It only stopped when Sherlock pulled away, John realizing that his tears were flowing steadily once more.

"Oh for God's sake." Sherlock mumbles, no malice within his voice whatsoever, just a smile on his now very pink lips as he brought a hand up, holding John's face with care, swiping the tears away gently with a thumb.

"You're here. You're really here and not, not dead." the older man says quietly, his arms wrapping around the younger one protectively, pulling him against him, giving him the softest kiss he thinks, he _knew_, he had ever given to anyone as his happy tears flowed, feeling Sherlock's arms wrap gently around his shoulders as their loving kiss continued.

"Remind me to punch you when I'm not a bloody blubbering mess." he says with a smile against the detective's mouth as he pulls away from Sherlock's warm lips, his arms tightening a tad more, hearing the man in his arms chuckle that deep, throaty laugh that he found particularly lovely.

"I wouldn't have it any other way." he chuckles more, John joining in in their delirious giggling, settling nicely back in bed, no intention of going back to sleep as they held tightly onto one another, giving one another kiss after kiss as they just drunk one another's presence in.

Sherlock placed a gentle hand on John's cheek after a small while, the former soldier looking down upon the thoroughly kissed man below him as he felt Sherlock brush the last of his tears away.

"Alright now? No more tears? Is my blogger happy again?" he asks softly, John nodding automatically with a small chuckle, knowing full well that having Sherlock back; he felt whole again. His missing piece was back now and hopefully forever.

John rolled away, bringing Sherlock along with him to hold tight on top, tucking the man's unruly haired head right under his chin. He places a tender kiss in the curls, feeling Sherlock relax against him, holding John with such a caring touch.

"Even on this grey day, I am happier than I've been in a long, long while." John answers with a wide smile, holding Sherlock a tad tighter as they did the last thing John thought possible: They lazed about most of the day, cuddling and kissing and just being (with the understanding that this was going to be a rare occurrence, so says Sherlock, anyway).

And you know, it wasn't actually that terribly weird, even with Sherlock, his consulting detective, who was most certainly not a dream anymore.

* * *

><p>TADA! And there you have it. :D Did you pick out the lyrics within the story? ;)<p>

Also, I was going to take it full angst ridden with it being only two years after and a mug or some such of Sherlock's being found in the morn, but . . . I just couldn't. I'm a bubbly person, I wanted it to be a happy ending (because I'm a wimp and wanted happiness XD), so, you get full on fluffiness. D:

So, thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed my fanfic. :D

More Sherlock stories to come at a later date, so until then, cheerio!


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